And Clara spoke little. Words about her comfort, words about her food, words of endearing reproof when Fanny woke too early or did not finish her toast.
But already Clara was no longer herself. Fanny saw her long dark face, haggard now and pale with heavy eyes. She saw the hand that feeding trembled a bit.
“You are not a mother. Yet I am your child. Just a little longer. For you are not a mother. I am a mother.”
Her eyes shone happy with an unuttered promise: “I shall be a mother to you. You shall see.” But Fanny dared not speak. For she knew when her words came, there would come from within her, deeper within her, her words’ denial.
Clara’s strong hands, tense like a cord, soothed her gown, clutched her shoulders, lifted her so that she could drink.
“To-morrow, dear, to-morrow we bundle you into a cab. At last! Away from this dreadful place.”
“Where?”
“To my place,” said Clara.
—I shall not speak ... yet awhile. For I am afraid of the word that will come when I speak.
The girl knelt down at the bed. Her head lay on Fanny’s breast. Her hands went wistful searching to upon her eyes, upon her mouth. Her eyes were shut and her lips moist upon the gown of Fanny....